


Birth of a Viper

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Character Death, Character Development, Child Abuse, F/M, Irony, M/M, Origin Story, Patricide, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wow. I did a Lucius Malfoy origin story. It’s about 5k, and warnings for basically everything including abuse, parental death (technical patricide), sexual references, being a horrible person and so on.</p><p>This is the origin story in play on my <a href="http://opprobriousremarks.tumblr.com/">Lucius Malfoy RP blog</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birth of a Viper

“Lucius,” Abraxas’ voice is sharp and stern, and Lucius stops immediately, turning to look at his father with his ice-coloured eyes slightly widened. He glances at the bird he’d carefully been walking after: it’s a pheasant, one of the half-tame, entirely stupid birds that walks through the grounds. Devoid of any real predators, they don’t know to run from humans, and subsequently it’s often easy to coax them into his lap. “Must you be so undignified?”

Lucius falters, staring at his father, and his companions around the table all seem just as unimpressed as Abraxas himself; Lucius looks from him to the bird again, because much as he wants his father to be pleased, he wants to chase it, and he wants to feel its soft plumage under his fingers.

“Lucius!” Abraxas reprimands him, and Lucius almost flinches backwards when he moves to stand, hand raising, but manages to control himself and stand his ground.

“Abraxas,” stops him, spoken in a soft, mellifluous voice Lucius hates almost as much as his father’s own. He isn’t here often, but the handsome man a little older than his father is commanding when he is. “Come now.” Lucius doesn’t recognize the spell, but when the green light hisses through the air and hits the pheasant, it drops down, still, without so much as a word.

A few of the men snicker, and when Lucius looks at his father he is grimly amused: he steps forwards, reaching out to touch the bird’s soft plumage, but it doesn’t so much as shift under the touch. Lucius feels suddenly ill.

“You killed it.” Lucius says in a small voice, and they laugh, as if it’s FUNNY. He crouches, picking up the lifeless thing in two small, pale hands, and he stares down at it, expression quietly horrified. “It was just a bird, and you-”

“Go inside, Lucius.” Abraxas orders cleanly. Lucius has never thought of him as Papa or Father, much as he calls him either to his face, and perhaps that is best. “Give the bird to one of the house elves for supper.” The words are spoken with a short and sharp revulsion, and Lucius wonders what the house elves have done to deserve the same tone his name is spoken with. 

“Yes, sir.” And he does.

Green light illuminating brown feathers and the death of that pheasant - they lend to Lucius’ first recallable memory, even when he’s on his deathbed a hundred years later. There’s something unforgettable about the Killing Curse, when one first witnesses it.

 ---

“Grand-maman, il y a- sur ta visage-” He can barely speak for laughing, perched precariously as he is on a chair to each the side, and she beams at him, looking as delighted with Lucius’ company as she ever does.

“Sur ma visage ?” She repeats sweetly, with an undeniably false innocence, and she puts one hand to her chin, smearing more white powder over her chin and affecting Lucius to giggles. “Quoi ? Il y a... ?”

The flour is all over her wrinkled features, but she doesn’t mind at all, and even reaches forwards to thumb affectionately over her grandson’s nose, smearing already-white skin with flour. 

He is in the kitchen all day long, working with his grandmother to create one pastry, and then another, and then another: it’s easy, in truth, because Lucius has been doing this since he was old enough to talk, and she has taught him a dozen recipes.

“How many restaurants do you own, Grand-maman?” Lucius asks as he sits on a chair, nose now cleared of flour, and watches the oven door with a concentrated gaze as if he might see the cakes and pastries within rise through the metal.

“Oh, a fair few, Lucius.” She returns - her name is Délphine, which was Lucius’ mother’s name. All of her family have wonderful names, soft and pretty on the tongue, but Lucius had been named for an ANCESTOR of his father’s: something to be proud of. “But you will own them too!”

“Why me? You have sons, grand-maman - isn’t it proper that they should get them?”

“You speak so seriously for a child.” She says, in a tone that’s almost melancholic, but isn’t quite; Lucius stares at her, as if the statement is perfectly nonsensical - and to him, it is. “And yes, so it is. But you will get two, oisillon, the ones your mother liked best. Of course, I am no longer as involved as I once was--”

“Will I work in one?” Lucius asks, not caring that he’s interrupting her, and she regards him fondly; her hair is white, but it had been as silver-blonde as his own, once upon a time. He’s seen paintings. “I should like to do this all day.”

“No, petit oiseau, I don’t think so.” Her accent is heavy, but he understands her perfectly, as well as he does in French: he has always understood his grandmother. She is the only one he has, after all - his father’s parents had died in an accident on a flying carpet. He has always suspected Abraxas wasn’t as sad about this fact as was proper. “You must be a politician, like your father.”

“Why?” Lucius asks. “It’s boring. And you’re a chef, grand-maman!”

“Mmm, but it’s hardly proper for a man of such esteem to work, hmm? Your father doesn’t think it right at all. Shows we have no status.” She’s being sarcastic, he’s certain, but he doesn’t point it out - he doesn’t like his father, but he RESPECTS him, and it’s not his place to speak against him.

Even when he deserves it. 

“Do you think you have no status, grand-mère?” She considers this, for a moment, and then she leans in to speak.

“I have appeared numerous rewards, have published several books, own a dozen restaurants and am something of a celebrity throughout France for my food. My kitchen is idolized and admired.” Lucius smiles at her, and she reaches forwards, putting one affectionate thumb over his cheek as she cups his face. “Lucius, cher, I have much status. But I am not of tradition like your father, hmm? You should obey him. He is so sad with your mother’s passing.”

“That was seven years ago.” Lucius says dully, and he considers asking if she will take him home with her when she returns to Marseille, but he doesn’t do that. Weakness is to be reviled, after all, and it would be a weakness to ask that. “Did she love him? My mother, did she love Father?”

“Oh, yes,” His grandmoher says softly, tone full of a sudden nostalgia, and Lucius watches her with a rapt expression. “Oh, she would have followed him to the ends of the earth, and him her. He thought her art was quaint, thought her baking delightful. On their wedding day, I’d never seen her so happy, never seen him so happy either. Your papa doesn’t smile much, hm?”

“No.” Lucius says with a shake of his head. The man never smiles. 

“But no, Délphine adored him, truly she did. She was devoted to him.” Lucius can’t help but wonder why, but he doesn’t ask. “He was distraught when she died, your father. He, er- he didn’t know what to do with himself.” The falter is momentary, but Lucius notices it. He notices everything - it’s required of him. 

“Oh.” Lucius replies. There’s a short pause, as she looks off into the middle-distance, expression silently thoughtful, and then she stands.

“Alors! Let’s get the cakes out, hmm? They’ll be done now--”

“Yes, grand-maman.”

 ---

“I should like to be a chef.” Lucius says quietly, and Abraxas raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

“You should like to work in a kitchen all day, like some Muggle?” His father’s tone is sharp, biting, but Lucius does not flinch. He is too proud for that.

“Grandmother is a chef, and she’s not a Muggle!”

“She might as well be.”

“You loved Mother! Wasn’t she a chef too?” Abraxas’ gaze flares, and Lucius realizes his tongue perhaps ought have remained still in his mouth; his father’s hand cuts hard against his cheek, and the slap rings through the room. 

“Go to my office.” Abraxas says coolly, removing the napkin from his lap and standing straight. He’s a tall man, broad and imposing, and Lucius stares up at him, remaining in his seat and clinging onto the desperate hope that he might finish his dinner without being beaten.

“I’m sorry, Father, I meant no-” His father’s rage is not to be trifled with, and Lucius feels an idiot.

“Go to my office.” Abraxas speaks in a low tone that cuts through Lucius like ice, promising something far worse than a beating if he doesn’t move now. Swallowing, Lucius stands and moves at a brisk pace, moving to his father’s office and putting his hands flat on the surface of his desk.

He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look when Abraxas picks the rattan cane from the shelf to the side.

 ---

“Did mother go to Hogwarts?” Lucius asks, and his grandmother shakes her head, not looking up from the rabbit as she deftly skins away the thick fur from the flesh. 

“No, she went to Beauxbatons. All Richelieus go to Beauxbatons.”

“What about me?”

“Why, you’re not a Richelieu, child. You’re a Malfoy.”

“I don’t want to be.” Lucius confesses, and his grandmother clucks her tongue softly, turning from the carcass on the cutting board and regarding him with a mix of sympathy and command. 

“You are a Malfoy. You must be proud of what you are, oisillon.” Lucius nods his head, and he watches as she separates the rabbit into neat pieces: he’s not as shocked by death as he once was, not with the amount of time he spends in his grandmother’s kitchen, and not with he tendency of his father to shoot birds down from the trees when it suits him. “You will do well at Hogwarts.”

“Are you certain? What if they don’t like me?” Lucius asks. He has few friends his own age, and although he does well on a broom, first years aren’t to play Quidditch, so how else is he to make friends?

“Of course they’ll like you. You are a charismatic, clever, lovely young man with a softness for birds, hmm? You know at Hogwarts, there is a whole tower full of owls?”

“I don’t have an owl, though.” Lucius points out.

“Of course you do.” She says sweetly, with a wink. He furrows his silver brow, and she nods her head to the cupboard. Excitement floods through him.

“Grand-maman?”

“Open the cupboard.” Lucius runs to do so, and the owl that sits before him is BEAUTIFUL, an eagle owl that baely fits within the pantry: immediately she throws herself forwards and perches neatly upon Lucius’ shoulder, a huge WEIGHT on his left side.

“How long was she in there?”

“Not long. I figured you’d ask about Hogwarts within a few minutes of seeing me.” She teases lightly, and Lucius laughs, reaching up and very cautiously playing over the plumage of the owl’s chest with the backs of his knuckles. 

“What's her name?”

“You choose.” She says, setting the knife aside and throwing a piece of meat the owl catches just by leaning forwards: her claws are huge, but he doesn’t dig them into Lucius’ shoulder to keep her balance.

“Hedone.” Lucius says softly.

“Mm, Hedone was not a messenger, my dear. She was a goddess of pleasure.” His grandmother points out.

“Yes, but she’ll bring pleasure where she goes, won’t she? When she brings letters?” She smiles at Lucius, at Lucius with Hedone upon his shoulder, and then she nods her head.

“Ouais, I suppose that’s true. Come, put her aside and help me with chopping vegetables.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Lucius says, and he beams at Hedone as she settles on the kitchen table, with a soft, approving hoot in response to Lucius’ tender touch to her head.

 ---

“I’m going to be in Slytherin.” Lucius says haughtily, raising his chin slightly, and the other two regard him with admiration on their faces. 

“Us too!” They say in unison, and he recognizes the two of them, has seen them at one party and another - Crabbe, and Goyle. Lucius smiles at them, and he reaches up, opening up the door to Hedone’s cage and letting her free: she swiftly settles on the seat beside him, and Lucius strokes her head as he listens to the both of them chatter.

They’re excitable, more so than Lucius himself, but they find him impressive, and Lucius likes that.

 ---

He’s almost reluctant to allow the old rag upon his head, uncomfortable with how covered in dirt it looks, but he sits obediently on the stool nonetheless, allowing it to drop over his head.

“What are you, then?”

I’m a Malfoy, Lucius thinks with pride. And I’m to be in Slytherin.

“Is that so?” The Sorting Hat’s question is immediate, and he resents it - as if Lucius doesn’t know his own SELF. "You needn’t be, you know. It’s all here in your head - with someone to grow out that intellect, you might be Ravenclaw. You could break away from family tradit-”

Why should I want to break away from family tradition!? Lucius thinks, with utter indignation he is glad no student can see thanks to the hat’s hiding his face. Much as he hates his FATHER, he cannot hate all that he is.

“Hmm, well, suit yourself. SLYTHERIN!” Lucius smiles in the direction of the Gryffindor table when it erupts with boos, his aristocratic features reconfiguring themselves into smug superiority as he moves with the grace of kings and queens towards the Slytherin table - the smile, it seems, shocks the red-clad imbeciles, because their boos falter, and they are overtaken by the Slytherins’ cheers as they take advantage of the lions’ sudden quiet.

Lucius grins, and the cheers only get louder.

 ---

It is two weeks into his school year, now, and he is delighted to see Hedone fly into the room - he’s sent a letter off to his father, and another to his grandmother, of course, but the excitement of getting post is easy to enjoy, even when it’s a slight disappointment to see his father’s handwriting on the envelope instead of his grandmother’s.

        Lucius,

I am glad to hear your studies are going as well as I had  
expected. You are a suitably intelligent child, and any other  
performance would have been positively unthinkable: my  
particular skill was in potions, but your mother was very   
skilled in transfiguration herself.

It will be interesting to see whom you most take after.

Lucius stares at the parchment, considering that he’s not really the top of the class in either, and making a mental note to add two extra hours of revision time to each subject’s grace in his weekly revision timetable. He has scheduled all his appropriate study, and every evening he notes new spells in a notebook, and the day’s events in a diary.

Lucius was always a meticulous child, and the Slytherin dormitories at night time, with the soft green glow coming from the lake above, are very peaceful in which to write.

I have been performing my own duties as is best - I have  
bought a gift for you this Christmas that you will undoubtedly  
adore. Best of luck for Slytherin House on the Quidditch pitch  
this weekend, and enjoy the game.

                                               Your loving father,  
                                               Abraxas S. Malfoy

Lucius raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, but it is easier to believe his father loves him when he is only reading the man’s words rather than hearing them. 

And then he realizes that there’s more to the page, and he turns it up slightly.

                   P.S. Your grandmother is dead.   
      The funeral is on Friday: you will not be attending.

Lucius stares at the page, and he feels tears well swiftly in the corners of his eyes, feels his throat suddenly thick and his chest ACHE with immediate pain. He rushes from the room with his bag hastily thrown over his shoulder, daubing desperately at his eye even as his Head of House approaches him, looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Lucius Malfoy, isn’t it? Hmm, what’s wrong?” The old man’s voice is relatively kind, but Lucius doesn’t trust him with such sensitive detail.

“Nothing, Professor Slughorn.” Lucius says, and he raises his chin, turning himself to ice: the tears stop short, and but for a bit of red around his eyes and some lingering wetness on his cheeks, he is expressionless. “Something of a shock, sir, that is all, I assure you.” It does not DO for a Malfoy to be seen crying, after all.

“You’re sure, lad?”

“Oh, of course, sir.” Lucius assures him with an ease he doesn’t feel, and he nods his head respectfully before walking past him and walking to his Charms class. He considers asking his Head of House to allow him to Floo one of his cousins, but the idea is unthinkable - he doesn’t want Slughorn to know of any GRIEF he may be feeling.

Such torrid emotion is improper for public consumption, after all. 

 ---

Lucius is a fine student, and a finer Slytherin. He is composed, ambitious, intelligent and - most of all, and most obviously - he is beautiful. 

 ---

“They made me prefect!” Lucius proclaims as he rushes down he stairs, and then he stops short, eyes wide as he looks between his father and the other men about the table: he stands straight, adjusts the cuffs of his robes, and does his best to look presentable despite his mussed hair and bare feet.

“Why, you did not say how tall your son had grown, Abraxas,” says a mellifluous voice Lucius recognizes, and he stares at the man that his father had once called Thomas, but hasn’t mentioned in years. He remembers green light and brown feathers, and the first time he’d seen the Killing Curse, when he’d been just a boy. 

The man his father had once called Thomas isn’t so handsome as he used to be, his face caved in in parts, his eyes sunken and RED, his skin a sallow, yellowish pale. He looks disgusting, but Lucius is too respectful to say so. 

“I didn’t think it important,” his father responses smoothly. “Well done, Lucius.” Abraxas says, insincerely. His friends clap with sarcasm, and Lucius is ashamed to feel heat come warm to his cheeks, flushing alabaster into pink. 

Lucius turns on his heel and ascends the stairs again: a shiver runs down his spine as he hears high laughter that is barely human in amongst the other laughter.

 ---

Lucius is an astonishingly good prefect. He works with a swift and earnest care, offering assistance with study, defending the younger snakes from the other houses, and being the perfect example to aspire to. He is, OF COURSE, a member of the Slug Club - why shouldn’t everyone want to BE him?

He is not his father, and he is intent on proving the fact: with the Slytherin first years, he is positively paternal, and they run to him with any trouble they might have. When he enters politics, they will already admire him as much as is suitable.

His fifth year is the year he stops inflicting his father’s unecessary company on his owl, and he doesn’t send the man so much as a note.

 ---

He gets Es in all of his OWLs except Ancient Runes, in which he gets a shining O that clearly stands out on the page. 

His father beats him for not doing well enough.

 ---

“How does it feel, then?” Crabbe asks in a light, teasing tone, elbowing Lucius affectionately in the side and withdrawing the arm when Lucius shoots him a withering glare. “To be head boy?”

“It’s hardly unexpected.” Lucius returns easily, proudly, and the both of them laugh together. “Excuse me: I’m to greet the first years.”

His speech is enthralling, as the speech always is to the first years entering Slytherin: it’s a quick guide to loyalty and pride within the house, and he delivers it with relish and with charisma. He glances over each of them as he does so, thinking each of them through and looking for potential, and his gaze falls on one in particular.

He’s a sallow-skinned, pale, tiny little lad, in robes that are cheaply made and ill-fitting, his hair a black MOP framing his angular features, but Lucius is fascinated despite himself. Severus Snape, his name is - a name he doesn’t recognize at all. 

It’s the next morning, at breakfast, that he sits across from the boy and speaks to him, DELIGHTS in the way he watches Lucius with obvious admiration on his features: he looks up to Lucius. Doesn’t everyone? But for some reason, his admiration stirs in him some affection, and he treats the boy with favouritism.

Especially once he realizes that Severus is an honest GENIUS. It is always terribly good to associate oneself with genius, after all.

 ---

He romances Narcissa Malfoy.

She isn’t especially attractive to him, but objectively she is truly beautiful, and when he asks his father as to offering his hand, Abraxas approves absent-mindedly, focusing on letters in front of him. 

Narcissa is intelligent, and she comprehends the importance of marrying political ideals and bloodlines, even if they are not in love.

He proposes to her in the Christmas break, and of course she says yes.

 ---

He gets Os in his NEWTs: Potions, Ancient Runes, Defence Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic.

He tells his father proudly, and Abraxas SCOFFS, as if his approval ought mean nothing at all to his son. Lucius wishes it did not.

 ---

War is brewing, and his father’s letters go off more often now, with his own owl. Lucius writes love letters to Narcissa, and pretends he will marry her in peacetime.

 ---

“Won’t you join the cause, Lucius?” The Dark Lord asks him - he will no longer be known as Thomas, and never will be again. His father had taken him aside on his own wedding night, taken him to this separate room to see this man - Voldemort - who will bring the wizarding world to new HEIGHTS.

Their aspirations are logical, and more than desirable - to prevent Mudbloods from coming to Hogwarts, to stop Muggles from polluting their world in the way that they do.

Lucius turns away for a moment, looking out into the garden, where his new wife is laughing with her sister - Bellatrix Lestrange, the bitch, but she has joined the cause. Why shouldn’t Lucius?

“Of course I will, my lord.” Lucius says cleanly, and then adds, “It would be an honour to serve you.” He does not forget that this is the man who killed a pheasant to stop a child from laughing, but he is a SUITABLE means to an end, an important one at that, an end that will ultimately create a better world for the children he and Narcissa are yet to have.

The Mark burns and makes his skin sing with pain, but it is worth it.

“I am proud of you, Lucius.” Abraxas says later. Perhaps he even means it: Lucius doesn’t care. The man is worthless, and no longer will Lucius wait for his approval for anything at all.

 ---

He touches Severus for the first time when he is yet to receive his Mark, crowds him against the wall and kisses him hard enough that Severus initially goes soft and boneless, and then, better, bites at Lucius’ lips.

Lucius drinks POWER from Severus’ tongue, delights in a body he can hurt within propriety; Severus, to his credit, arches for the pain and desires more and more.

He is smaller than Lucius, smaller and thinner and all but weightless if Lucius decides to pick him up and pin him to whatever surface he pleases.

Severus is a MASOCHIST, and his masochism dances well with Lucius’ companionable love for inflicting pain: when they are together, Lucius leaves Severus with a dozen new bruises and marks besides.

 ---

The affair is short-lived: Lucius loves him too much, as a friend, as the child he’d once known, to be as sadistic as he’s capable. Severus resents his (comparatively) soft hands, and so they no longer fuck.

But they are friends: strong friends, stronger than anyone might ever believe. 

Lucius would go to the ends of the earth for the odd, pale man who eternally looks like his clothes and hair have been painted with a pot of black ink.

 ---

He comes to love Narcissa.

He had not intended to, not really - their union had been of convenience and strategy, well-thought but not intended to be affectionate, and yet startlingly he begins to adore her. He sees her grace in the little moments, speaks of her charms rapturously in the diaries he will not allow her to see, and some mornings, sits with easel and oil paints and paints his wife while she’s still asleep in bed. 

He comes to love Narcissa, and it is entirely unexpected - but not unwelcome.

Love is a pleasant distraction from the child that does not come as swiftly as it ought. 

 ---

Narcissa is pregnant; Severus is barely speaking to him; the Dark Lord is demanding, and Lucius is tired. He sits with a small glass of cognac in one hand, a book in his lap, but he hasn’t so much as sipped his drink since pouring it, and he reads the same line over and over again.

“Lucius?”

“Yes, my darling?” The word is an affectionate platitude: he wouldn’t see the sense in its delivery if it didn’t make Narcissa’s eyes lighten so. She is beginning to show beneath the fabric of her robes, a small bump, and Lucius cannot help but be EXCITED, expectant father as he is.

“Will you make me some of your pancakes?” Narcissa’s tone is tender, and Lucius stands, offering his arm and leading her to the kitchen. The pancakes he makes for Narcissa are not the USUAL sort - there’s no egg in them, and they’re sweet but light and not at all fattening. Narcissa has come to crave them, so it seems, but he minds not at all.

He likes to please her. 

“What shall we call him, do you think?” Narcissa asks from her seat at the kitchen table: she is beautiful where she sits, poised with perfect posture, and he glances at her, tired but affectionate.

“Hmm? Oh, well, Délphine might be nice for a girl, for my-”

“Him.” Narcissa repeats, and Lucius almost drops his jug: he does drop his whisk, but he barely noticies it.

“Oh, so it is- it is definitely-”

“Yes.” Lucius BEAMS, brightly, showing all his teeth: a SON. He is to have a SON. 

“Ah, perhaps- perhaps Cygnus, for your father?”

“What do you think of Draco?”

“Draco.” Lucius says softly, and the romance of it overtakes him: a dragon, born of regal serpentess and white bird. “Yes, yes, Narcissa, that’s wonderful.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa says quietly.

“Yes?”

“The pancakes are burning.”

“Oh, merde-” She laughs at him, but he isn’t defensive of the slip as he might be with someone else - she is his WIFE, after all, and he can show indignity before her. Especially when they are to have a CHILD.

 ---

Draco is the most beautiful child Lucius has ever laid eyes on. He holds him with tender arms, holds him close and brushes his lips over the sweet child’s foreheads, delights in his pretty face and his tiny self. 

“Will you be godfather?” Lucius asks Severus one night, and Severus RECOILS.

“No!”

“Now, Severus-”

“No, Lucius, I will not.” 

“I would happily play godfather to your children.”

“I’m not going to have children.” It is said with such scorn that Lucius tilts his head, slightly melancholic - Severus seems ever so tired, as of recent, and Lucius is desperately concerned, but asking questions never does well with the other man.

“Alright.” Lucius says mildly, and he pushes his queen across the board. He always loses at chess with Severus, but he still likes to play. “But you’ll come to ceremony?” Severus stares at him, pale face unreadable. 

“You will come to the ceremony.” Lucius says sternly.

“Very well.”

 ---

He cannot help but be somewhat GLAD when the Dark Lord falls: his child is only a baby, after all, and peace at any measure is preferable to war, even if winning might have served them better. Besides, as a father, he can no longer risk himself in battles with Mudblood sympathizers, and the Dark Lord’s passing is better for all involved.

If only his FATHER would die as well.

 ---

Draco is seven, and Abraxas is as stern with him as he ever was with Lucius himself, but Lucius won’t allow the man to touch his grandson. Severus, at least, somewhat holds his bitter tongue with Lucius’ precious child, and Narcissa spoils him as Lucius can’t, for the sake of creating a young man who is STRONG.

It occurs to him when he visits St Mungo’s for a visitation: he pockets the handkerchief with a (gloved) hand from an older lady with Dragon Pox, and it is easy to enchant it to look like one of his father’s own and slip it into his pocket.

Abraxas always WISHED for his son to be a viper, after all, and Lucius is that, by now.

 ---

Lucius attends his father’s funeral, attends it with relish, for he could not attend his grandmother’s. Draco is too young to understand grief, and Narcissa knew the man too well to feel any: Lucius is glad to watch his coffin lower into the ground.

Of course, triumph is such an inappropriate reaction when one’s father is dead.

He hides his smile with his umbrella.

It’s only proper, after all.


End file.
